An Honourable Provision
by Peradan
Summary: The newlywed Darcys deal with marriage, society, and most of all, family. P&P sequel, concurrent with 'A Matter of Chance.'
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_I am happier even than Jane. She only smiles; I laugh._  
— letter from Elizabeth Bennet to Margaret Gardiner, October 1812

Despite the prosperity of the parish, the magnificence of the chapel, and the youthful good looks of the vicar, the church at Kympton had not been so well-attended in years.

The Darcys were chiefly responsible for this increase in piety. They were a young married couple, just returned from their wedding in Hertfordshire, and the neighbourhood took a proprietary sort of interest in them. Mr Darcy, after all, was one of their own, and his bride, a perfect stranger — what could be more intriguing? Rumours flew faster than they had in the last four weeks.—Mrs Darcy was a connection of Lord Arlington's, or a tradesman's daughter worth 100,000 _l._; she was a clever, conniving little piece, or an ignorant, illiterate girl from the country.

None of these were remotely close to the truth, but _that_ hardly signified.

Immediately upon the Darcys' arrival, every eye fell on Mr Darcy and the slender young lady at his side. Never was a congregation so alert in standing up at the proper opportunities. Mrs Trent, a martyr to rheumatism, and old Mr Willard sprang up even before the psalm was given out.

As soon as the sermon was finished, they all rushed to the churchyard, and the lady walked out, leaning on her husband's arm. Such an incident! Everybody curtseyed and bowed and caught easy glimpses of Mrs Darcy's pretty dark face. Nothing could have exceeded the gratification of the entire assembly; the gossips declared her scarcely tolerable, the romantics sighed at such a striking pair, and the Darcys themselves could scarcely contain their amusement.

This was not an unusual circumstance. By nature, they were clever, good-humoured, satirical, and when happy themselves, considered other people the world's finest entertainment.

And they _were_ happy, perfectly so — no mean achievement at the respective ages of twenty-one and twenty-eight. Yet with youth and wealth, virtue and passion, brilliance and beauty, with every thing in their favour, why should they not be happy? What signified some small neighbourly impertinences, a few family obstacles? Elizabeth Darcy certainly could not imagine anything superior to those heady first weeks of marriage. Even the trivialities of daily life delighted her; she picked up gossip from her maid, stories from the housekeeper, and shamelessly stole kisses from her austere husband.—She condemned 'trivial fripperies' and pored over _La Belle Assemblée_; she vigorously denied interest in sentimental novels, and kept a volume of _Cecilia_ hidden in her prayer-book.

Alas, even they could not forever remain in a state of unending bliss. The winter was cold, the tenants suffered, and the Earl of Ancaster returned from London, his family in tow.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was Lord Ancaster's nephew and acknowledged favourite — the Earl, disappointed in his own children, loved him with a blind and therefore unreasonable affection. This particular fondness for Darcy, and the very strong family feeling shared by nearly all Fitzwilliams, far outweighed the dismay he genuinely felt. He spoke of the match with delight, sent a furious letter to his sister Catherine, and forbade all of his other relations from breathing a word of disapprobation. He then spent two days drafting a note of what might be generously termed congratulations, and requested the company of young Miss Darcy during the first few weeks of the marriage.

About a fortnight thereafter, mere days after the Fitzwilliams' return from London, the Earl's own son and heir happened across Elizabeth's path.

She was returning to the house after a long brisk walk, her head full, when she glanced up and saw a man walking towards her. Darcy seldom left his study at this hour, yet even through the thickly falling snow she could make out a familiar tall, spare figure, the dark hair scarcely distinguishable from the black of his coat.

'Fitzwilliam?' she called out, startled.

Though he turned towards her at the name, she almost instantly realised her mistake. She _knew_ Darcy, his posture, gestures, manners, even the infinitesimal changes in expression — she had been observing him for over a year before her wedding-day. This was another man entirely.

'Oh, I am sorry.' Elizabeth shielded her eyes against the reflected sunshine as he approached. 'I mistook you for somebody else.' At this distance, she could see that despite a certain resemblance in colouring and countenance, he was by no means her husband's double — about ten years older, and at least two or three inches shorter.

'I will take that as a compliment,' he replied, with a rather odd half-smile. 'I presume that I have the honour of addressing Mrs Darcy?'

'Yes,' said she, her voice firm, 'Yes, you do. Forgive me, I do not believe we are acquainted . . .'

'No, of course not. I am Lord Milton.' He gave her an enquiring look, then continued, 'I recognised you from my brother Richard's account.'

Elizabeth tried to think if she knew a Richard.

'Richard Fitzwilliam?—he is a colonel in the army, you met him at my aunt's estate in Kent.'

'Oh! Colonel Fitzwilliam! Yes, of course I remember. Surely you would like to go into the house? I hope you have not been outside long.'

'Not long at all,' he assured her, 'though I can endure this trifling inclemency quite well, I am Yorkshire born and bred. I do have business with my cousin, however.'

'Trifling inclemency?'

Lord Milton gestured for her to lead the way, and chuckled. 'I suppose you think we are all quite deranged, but this is a warm day for the season.'

'Mr Darcy says the winter is colder than usual,' Elizabeth said stoutly.

'The winter, yes.' A familiar flicker of worry crossed his brow; then his expression cleared. 'Today, however, is lovely.' He shook some snow off of his boots. 'But you are from the South; it cannot be the same for you.'

'No, I am dreadfully spoilt,' she agreed cheerfully. 'Before my marriage, I never dreamt so much snow existed in the world, as is here gathered in one park.'

Lord Milton laughed outright. 'It must be a great change.'

'Yes, of course. I suppose it always is, when a woman leaves her home.' She thought of poor Jane, constantly subjected to the meddling of her mother and sisters-in-law. 'I am very far from minding a _trifling inclemency_, though; I far prefer Derbyshire to Hertfordshire.'

'Yes,' said Milton, with an intent look, 'I rather imagine you do.'

Once at the house, he took his leave of her and went in search of Darcy, and Elizabeth, occupied by a dispute between two parlourmaids, scarcely spared him a second thought until later that evening. Just before giving the usual orders for dinner, she remembered her meeting with him, and sent for a servant.

'John, please discover if Lord Milton would like to remain for dinner.'

He returned with an affirmative, so Elizabeth altered her plans. Within a few minutes, the cousins joined her, their business apparently concluded, and Darcy performed the formal introductions.

'Elizabeth,' said he, 'this is my mother's nephew, Lord Milton. Milton, my wife.'

They murmured greetings and acknowledged their earlier encounter, then everyone seated themselves and waited for the meal.

Milton began the conversation straightaway.

'I cannot tell you how amazed I was to hear of your engagement,' he said. 'Though I suspect my father's astonishment exceeded my own. It must have been a very rapid courtship.'

'Such things are always relative,' Elizabeth replied. 'Some might consider a year rather quick, I suppose.'

'A year?' Lord Milton's grey eyes widened. 'You have been sly, Darcy; when we saw you in London, you never breathed a word of any attachment.'

'You are startled to discover that I might prefer to keep my private affairs private?'

Milton laughed. 'I did not think that even you could keep absolutely silent on a subject of such import for such a length of time; forgive me for underestimating your discretion, cousin — though I am not the only one at fault. The expression on my father's face was like nothing I have seen before.'

Darcy's eyes narrowed. 'Speaking of whom, how is my uncle? I am surprised that he did not insist upon joining you.'

Elizabeth, watching with a considerable degree of interest and amusement, easily perceived her new cousin's discomfort at the innocuous question. 'I . . . I do not believe he is aware of my presence here.'

'Not aware?—how is that possible? Surely you and Diana have been at Houghton this week past? Before he even arrived?'

'No.' Lord Milton straightened, lifting his chin. 'The Leighs were good enough to extend an invitation to us.' Hastily, he turned to Elizabeth and explained, 'The Leighs are our cousins; I do not know if you will have met them yet.'

'I seem to recall several people by that name,' she owned, and recognising the displeased wonder on her husband's face, filled the uncomfortable silence. 'I did not know they were connections of ours, however.'

'Darcy's grandmother was a Leigh before her marriage,' said Milton.

Darcy recovered his temper and voice. 'I think I may presume that you have not yet paid your respects to my uncle and aunt, then?'

'Oh — they have not been in the country more than three days. I did not want to impose so early; Ella tells me that Mother is not in the best of health.'

'I see,' said Darcy, his expression incredulous. With a visible effort, he went on, 'And I hope that Diana is well?'

Milton suppressed a grimace. 'Very well, thank you.'

The rest of the evening passed in like manner. Elizabeth attempted to forward the conversation with little success, triviality succeeding triviality. Whatever their kinship, the two men were plainly not on the best of terms, the tension between them nearly palpable. To his credit, Darcy at least tried to conceal his disapproval behind forbiddingly correct civility, but his cousin's good breeding did not extend beyond the most perfunctory politeness, his manner towards Elizabeth a blur of admiration and suspicion. Clearly, each cousin felt equipped to pass judgment on the other, and just as clearly, each found the other wanting.

Thankfully, Milton left directly after dinner, and Elizabeth, upon retiring upstairs, wasted no time in questioning her husband as to what had just taken place.

'Lord Milton's business with you must have been very pressing,' said she, 'as I cannot think he came eleven miles to enquire after your relations' health.'

'Undoubtedly he considered it quite urgent.' Darcy straightened a pile of books. 'My cousin has, yet again, exceeded his income, and wishes me to supplement it.'

Elizabeth, stealing a sip of his brandy, choked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Would you like your own glass, dear?'

'Of course not. Fitzwilliam, I do not understand. Why should he expect you, of all people, to pay for his extravagance? Why does he not turn to his father, or an uncle?'

'I have assisted him on several other occasions, so he is not entirely to blame for believing I could be prevailed upon once more. Also, I am one of the only people familiar with the reasons for his — plight. He dares not tell his father, and his great-uncle, Grandmother's younger brother, detests him.'

'There are reasons?'

'Gambling, and — and the maintenance of —' He hesitated.

'A lady friend?'

Darcy nodded, scowling at his books. 'I _told_ him I would not — ' He cut himself off. 'In any case, I now have concerns greater than the cut of my cousin's coat, so he must fare without me.'

'I daresay he shall manage.' Elizabeth smiled at him, then, remembering a conversation in Kent, burst out laughing. At her husband's startled glance, she cried, 'So _that_ is the elder brother! and not at all sickly — poor Colonel Fitzwilliam.'

'I believe I may assure you,' replied Darcy in the driest of tones, 'that, against all reasonable expectation, and despite being called Richard, my cousin has never schemed against his brother or his nephews.'

'That is a great comfort. I suppose he shall simply have to settle for some young heiress glad enough to snare an earl's son, whatever his fortune — or lack of it.'

Darcy's pale cheeks flooded with colour, earning an incredulous stare from his wife.

'Good heavens, Fitzwilliam, I am only speaking of what he himself suggested to me, when we were little more than friendly acquaintances. Has he already done it?'

'I — yes . . . no . . . that is . . .' he stopped, then, recovering his usual precise air, continued, 'he might, perhaps, have married such a person by now, had I not persuaded him out of it . . . several times.'

'If you insist,' Elizabeth said soberly, 'I shall try and _appear_ surprised.'

His mouth twitched. 'How very kind of you.'

After some more desultory conversation, he walked around the room, extinguishing candles, and finally stopped by the window, pulling the curtains closed. Due to the dying embers in the fireplace, Elizabeth could just make out his figure, frozen at the window; all else was dark.

'Come to bed,' she said, her yawn audible. When he did so, Elizabeth immediately curled up against his side, rather enjoying the cool touch of his skin, the soft steady rhythm of his breathing. After only a few days of marriage, it was all a novelty still, strange, comfortable, and fascinating. 'Fitzwilliam?'

'Yes?'

'Your cousin does not approve of our marriage, does he?'

Darcy paused. 'No; he rarely approves of that which gains him no advantage.'

'How long have you been on such poor terms with him?'

'We quarrelled in April,' he said shortly. 'Elizabeth, believe me, the only regard I have for my cousin is that he is my mother's eldest nephew, and father of my godchildren. His opinions are a matter of utter insignificance to all of us, not only myself. You need not concern yourself with _Milton_, of all people.'

'We are happy,' she replied, too weary to think clearly. 'He will see it in time, they all will.'

The gentle brush of his fingers against her forehead was at odds with his firm voice. 'Go to sleep, Elizabeth.'

* * *

For those uninitiated into the Canon of Peradan, this should help:

Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy's mother was Lady Anne Darcy, née Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, younger sister to the Earl of Ancaster and Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Lord Ancaster has three children -- his heir, Lord Milton (married to the former Lady Diana Stanhope), then Colonel Fitzwilliam (Christian name Richard) and Eleanor, Lady Northbrook (married to Lord Northbrook, heir of the wicked yet long-lived Duke of Albany). When 'Chance' opens, Milton has four children (Diana, John, Amelia, Paul) and Eleanor, two (Fitzwilliam, Catherine). Lady Catherine has one child, her frail daughter Anne. The dowager Lady Ancaster is the widow of the Fitzwilliam cousins' grandfather, the 4th Earl. There are also a pair of poor relations, James and Cecily Fitzwilliam.

The only other Darcys are the elderly, rich, and childless Sir James and Lady Darcy, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy's great-uncle and -aunt. They are also cousins to the Willoughbys of Aincourt: Lord Aldborough (who lives in seclusion in Ireland), his son Lord Courtland and his daughter Lady Dorothea, and their widowed relation, John Willoughby of Combe Magna.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_You appear to me, Mr Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection._

— Elizabeth Bennet, 1811

Elizabeth was greatly relieved to discover that the near insatiable curiosity of the neighbourhood did not rest solely on her shoulders, but was instead divided between herself and the former Miss Honoria Ponsonby, lately married to Lord Allendale. By the time that the beleaguered brides finally met, their gratitude was such that they were ready, eager, nay, _determined_ to approve of one another.

That initial introduction took place under the most ordinary of circumstances — about a week after Elizabeth's arrival in Derbyshire, the Allendales called to express welcome and congratulations. As soon as they were announced, Elizabeth sprang up with genuine enthusiasm, pleased to see that they appeared very much as she had imagined them.

'Forgive us,' Lady Allendale began straightaway, 'but we believed your husband to be here, or we should never have intruded.'

'Oh, he is with his steward,' she explained, 'but they should be finished shortly. Please, sit down. Would you like tea, or coffee?'

'Thank you, coffee would be delightful,' said Lord Allendale. 'He is with his steward already?'

'I rather doubt that a day passes in which he does not communicate with Mr Higgins.' She sent for the coffee, slightly annoyed at the gentleman's startled expression. Did he think her incapable of the smallest civility? 'My husband considers fulfilling his responsibilities a point of honour, as I daresay you must already know.'

Lord Allendale gave a short, barking laugh. 'His adherence to duty is very nearly legendary in these parts. I only thought matters might change, given the present situation.'

Elizabeth poured the coffee, and said glibly, 'He could not love me half so much, loved he not honour more.—Cream or sugar, sir?'

'No, thank you — we take it black.' He seemed puzzled, but behind her cup, Lady Allendale's eyes danced. He continued, 'I understand you are from the South, Mrs Darcy?'

'Yes, my father's estate is in Hertfordshire.' She sipped at her own cup.

'It must be very different.'

'Yes, it is. Lady Allendale, have you been in Derbyshire long?'

'All of her life,' said Lord Allendale, before his wife could answer. 'She was one of the Ponsonbys, the Wakefield Ponsonbys.'

'I am sorry, ma'am,' said Elizabeth, 'I have never heard of your family.'

'There is no reason that you should have,' he replied. 'It is only that they are very near neighbours. Lady Allendale's mother, Lady Huntingdon, is a distant relative of your husband's.' He smiled at her, but Elizabeth, meeting his pleasant dark eyes, felt inexplicably perturbed. Despite every intention to curtail unreasoning judgments, she already disliked him.

'Oh, I see. Are you often with your parents, Lady Allendale?'

'Very rarely,' said Lord Allendale, 'my wife is of an extremely retiring disposition.'

Lady Allendale choked on her coffee. 'I beg your pardon,' she managed, before her husband carried on.

'Your father's estate, you said? Perhaps I might have heard of it.'

'I think not,' said Elizabeth, 'it is quite modest. In the ordinary course of things, I assure you I would never have met a Mr Darcy.'

'And yet you did meet.'

'A friend of his rented a nearby estate, and we happened across each other's paths at a local assembly. Would you like more coffee, Lord Allendale?'

'Yes, please. An assembly, really? I should never have thought it — Darcy, at an _assembly_ in Hertfordshire! Is it not incredible, my dear?'

Uncertain which was the incredible event in question, Elizabeth smiled at Lady Allendale's succint, 'Quite.'

'I hope that we shall see more of Miss Darcy, now that there is a lady in the house. I have heard that she is uncommonly pretty — ' his eyes briefly lingered on Lady Allendale's handsome profile — 'and quite accomplished.'

At that moment, Darcy himself entered. 'Oh! there you are!' his wife cried, her face lighting up. Though he trusted that she was very fond of him, this seemed rather excessive, until he caught sight of her callers. After the exchange of greetings, he unobtrusively seated himself between Elizabeth and Lord Allendale.

'Darcy, we were astonished to hear of your engagement,' Lord Allendale said.

'Yes, I imagine you were,' replied Darcy, his voice dropping into a languid drawl that Elizabeth, at least, had always found excessively irritating. She rather suspected that it was meant to be.

'Plainly, however,' the viscount went on, with an admiring glance at Elizabeth, 'you are no more of a fool than you have ever been. I congratulate you.'

Elizabeth flushed angrily. Darcy said through clenched teeth, 'Thank you, Lord Allendale.'

'And I, Mr Darcy,' added Lady Allendale, apparently emboldened by the presence of her host. 'I hope that you both will be very happy, and that I may have the opportunity of furthering my acquaintance with your wife.' She smiled, setting down her coffee with a firm _clink_. It was almost untouched, and Elizabeth was abruptly certain that the viscountess did not like coffee at all.

'I am certain you will,' she said.

'We were just speaking of Miss Darcy,' Lord Allendale persisted. 'When shall we see her? She must be seventeen or eighteen by now.'

'No. She is not.'

Lady Allendale smothered a smile; Elizabeth decided that monosyllables were never a good sign and said, 'She has been staying at Ancaster House, then Houghton, with the Fitzwilliams, but will return in a few days. They are so near, it is not much of a journey. I am discovering that most of Mr Darcy's relations are within thirty miles of Pemberley. Tell me, Lady Allendale, does everyone stay here for their entire lives, or are there a few more interlopers like me?'

'Nobody, I am sure, would consider you an interloper, Mrs Darcy,' said Lord Allendale gallantly.

'As for your question,' Lady Allendale added, 'you are quite right; most of us seldom reside elsewhere, except sometimes during the Season. —Not that _I_ go to town, of course, being so very retiring. In any case, by now we are all connected to each other, somehow, and so well acquainted, that it is really quite convenient.'

'Oh dear,' cried Elizabeth, laughing, 'I hope I am not the only inconvenient bride!'

'Well, there is Lady Caroline Villiers. She is not from here at all.'

'Honoria,' said Lord Allendale, 'I hardly think they are appropriate companions for Mrs Darcy.'

'She is one of Lord Annesley's sisters,' Darcy said, a line forming between his brows. 'Elizabeth, you remember my friend Annesley — he was one of the guests at Pemberley, last summer. In fact, Mr Villiers met Lady Caroline through me.'

'Oh, I remember — they are Mrs Annesley's Irish cousins.' She favoured Lord Allendale with her most sweetly innocuous expression, then turned to her husband. 'Such obliging, well-bred people, I thought. I am sure, dear, that nobody could object to any of _your_ friends.'

'I should hope not.' The Darcys smiled at each other, then he cleared his throat. 'I beg your pardon, but I have only just remembered with this talk of the summer. Allendale, do you recall that acquisition we were speaking of last August? I have only just rediscovered it. Come, I can show you this very minute — hopefully before some overzealous servant moves it again.'

'I could hardly think of abandoning the ladies,' Allendale protested.

'Nonsense,' said Darcy. 'They understand, I am sure — ' he nodded at them, easily receiving the assent of both, 'therefore, with all due apologies to Mrs Darcy and Lady Allendale, I must insist.' The viscount was a small, slight man. Darcy, more forceful both in person and personality, easily propelled him out of the room.

Lady Allendale gave an audible sigh of relief. 'My dear Mrs Darcy, I must beg your pardon for my husband's behaviour. I am truly honoured to meet you — and not only a little curious!'

'There is nothing to apologise for on your part,' Elizabeth assured her. 'As for your curiosity, I would be a hypocrite to despise in you what I feel such a great measure of myself.'

The other woman laughed. 'I shall consider that permission to be as impertinent as I please,' she announced, gleefully. 'Did you truly meet Mr Darcy at an assembly hall? In Hertfordshire?'

'Yes, indeed. It is indelibly marked on my memory.'

'He _danced_ with you there?'

Elizabeth burst out laughing. 'Not at all. He danced one set each with the two ladies in his party, and spent the rest of the evening pacing. At one point, he even refused to stand up with me.'

Lady Allendale's eyes rounded. 'He did? To your face?'

'Oh, no — he would not do that, even then. No, I never knew whether he realised I could hear him at all, but it was a truly inspired piece of rudeness. As you might imagine, I did not feel very cordial towards him.'

'And yet . . .?'

'I changed my mind,' said Elizabeth simply, glossing over nearly a year's worth of trials and tribulations. 'I saw his true character, eventually, and he learnt to tolerate the foibles of humanity with rather better grace. So here we are.'

'It sounds very romantic.'

Elizabeth, catching the touch of envy in the other woman's voice, said, 'Not really — neither of us are very sentimental. I am glad it is over and that we are at Pemberley.'

'I suppose you must be; it is very lovely.' Lady Allendale glanced about the light, airy room, her eyes skittering away from Elizabeth. 'Mr Darcy, I understand, improved it a great deal when he inherited.'

'I imagine so; my husband has a remarkable genius for . . . arranging things.' Elizabeth smiled and went on, 'Is your husband's estate very far from here?'

'No,' Lady Allendale replied, looking surprised. 'Enley is only a few miles away.'

'Then I hope that you will permit me to call on you?'

'Oh! yes, of course!' cried Lady Allendale, her face lighting up. 'I would be honoured to receive you, Mrs Darcy, at whatever time is most convenient for you.'

Elizabeth could scarcely imagine what would make Lady Allendale so delighted about so little; with a rather shaky smile, she said, 'I . . . are you much occupied on Monday?'

'Not at all.' Then she paused. 'Oh! Caroline will be there; I hope you do not mind? I know she is very eager to meet you, and you will have plenty to talk about. She is from the South, too.'

'Oh? I thought the Annesleys were Irish.'

'Well, yes, but she has spent her entire life in London and Bath. That is why my husband disapproves of her so — he thinks she will infect me with her city notions, or some such nonsense.' She laughed outright.

'I do not think I shall be so easily corrupted,' said Elizabeth. 'I used to spend a part of every year in London, with my aunt and uncle in Gracechurch Street.'

To her credit, Lady Allendale's only reaction was a slightly higher-pitched voice. 'Oh!—you must be very fond of them.'

'Yes, I am, particularly now.' The viscountess' brows drew together, and Elizabeth explained, 'If it were not for them, I should never have met Mr Darcy again. You see, I am . . . I am very happy.' She smiled and shrugged. 'So we are both quite grateful. They are to come at Christmas.'

'I see.' Lady Allendale gazed into her coffee. 'I hope, then, that you will introduce me to their acquaintance.'

'Of course. I hope we shall know each very well by then.'

'I believe we shall.'

After a brief silence, Elizabeth sent for the tea. 'I noticed that you did not care for coffee.'

'Thank you.' Lady Allendale stared at the pot a moment. Then, setting her jaw, she said, 'Cream and sugar both, please.'

Elizabeth stepped out of the carriage, straightening her pelisse and briefly touching the rubies at her throat, then took a critical glance at Enley. It had little to recommend itself. The house skulked at the bottom of a valley, the grounds improved beyond all beauty or use. Not everyone could have Darcy's good taste, of course, but still — poor Lady Allendale, to be consigned to such a dreary place. 

_Poor Lady Allendale_ greeted her with a bright smile. 'My dear Mrs Darcy,' she cried, 'I am so pleased to see you!'

Elizabeth, somewhat amused at her hostess' excessive cheer, smiled and accepted the viscountess' hands. 'Thank you — I am delighted to be here.'

'The parlour is not the most luxurious but much more comfortable than the others — I hope you do not mind? — there is a pianoforte — do you play or sing?'

'Yes, a little of both. I should practise more constantly, I confess, but I do not have the patience for it.'

Lady Allendale burst out laughing. 'How wonderful, we have something in common,' she declared, 'for I could never abide learning. I was a great disappointment to my poor mother.'

Dryly, Elizabeth replied, 'We have one more thing in common, then.' She glanced around the room. Lord Allendale's mania for improvement clearly had not extended to his house, for everything was in the heavy, gloomy style of fifty years earlier — remarkably fine, but a very far cry from Pemberley's light elegance.

Scarcely five minutes after Elizabeth's own arrival, the footman ushered in a fashionable young woman of about six-and-twenty, her pretty oval face dominated by a pair of warm blue eyes. 'Good morning, Honoria . . . oh! You must be Mrs Darcy.'

'And you must be Lady Caroline,' returned Elizabeth. 'I have already heard a great deal of you from your friend.'

After one short sharp glance, Lady Caroline said, 'And I have heard a great deal of you from . . . everyone.'

Lady Allendale and Elizabeth both burst out laughing, then the former recollected herself. 'Oh, forgive me — Caroline, this is Mrs Darcy; Mrs Darcy, Lady Caroline Villiers.'

'Well,' said Elizabeth, 'I hope you have heard nothing too terrible.'

'Oh, it is all very banal,' Lady Caroline assured her. 'Mr Darcy, apparently, was transfixed by your beauty after one glance, and you, naturally, took advantage of his infatuation and married him for his fortune and consequence.'

'Oh dear, wrong on — let me see — yes, all three counts, and the first most of all.' Elizabeth could not keep from smiling at the memory. 'What dreadful odds.'

Lady Allendale burst out, 'They are nothing more than spiteful old gossips. As if nobody could wish to marry a gentleman as clever and honourable as Mr Darcy something other than money!'

'And handsome, too,' added Lady Caroline solemnly. 'Truly, it boggles the imagination.'

Elizabeth laughed. 'I could not have spoken better myself.' She sipped at her tea. 'Though I will admit that I can endure certain luxuries with very little complaint.'

For the first time, a smile warmed Lady Caroline's face. 'I am sure that you are very long-suffering, Mrs Darcy.'

'Oh yes. I simply loathe jewels and carriages and all fine things, but I tolerate them for my husband's sake. He cannot help his wealth, poor man.'

Everybody laughed; then Lady Caroline gave Elizabeth a steady look and said, 'Honoria tells me that you, too, are from the South?'

'Yes, my father's estate is only fourteen miles from London. That is where _you_ lived before your marriage?'

'Primarily, although I often went to Bath. Derbyshire is certainly very different, would you not say?'

'It could not be more so. I love Pemberley, but I should miss town if I could never return. Did you enjoy living in the city, Lady Caroline?'

The older woman's eyes lit up. 'Oh, yes, I liked both London and Bath — all the entertainments they offered, and the people.' Then she gave a philosophical shrug. 'But I liked my husband more, so here I am.'

'I can certainly understand _that_,' said Elizabeth, laughing. Then she caught a glimpse of Lady Allendale's half-envious, half-wistful expression, and hurriedly went on, 'All jesting aside, I think we are rather fortunate in that we need not make any particular choice. After all, we may return south just as easily as we left it.'

'It certainly makes the change easier,' Lady Caroline agreed. 'If I had to spend my life buried in the country — '

'Exactly.' Elizabeth finished her muffin. 'I know that we are going to town in the spring — and you?'

'Yes,' said Lady Caroline, 'I insisted. My youngest sister is having her first Season.'

Lady Allendale hesitated for a long moment. 'I shall not,' she finally said, wetting her lips with a nervous look. 'My husband does not permit me to go . . . so far away.'

The other ladies choked over their tea in almost perfect unison.

'My dear Honoria —' began Caroline.

Elizabeth's mind had already leapt ahead. 'Lord Allendale is very deferential to my husband,' she said. 'I do not know why, but . . .'

'My husband's family has only been settled at Enley for about seventy years,' Lady Allendale explained. '_Your_ husband's has been at Pemberley for over seven hundred. Allendale does not easily forget such things.'

'Well,' said Elizabeth, 'I have hardly any acquaintance in town, so I shall probably be desperately lonely. I am sure that if I mentioned my desire for good company to my husband, he might mention it to _yours_, and . . .' She shrugged. 'Perhaps Lord Allendale might reconsider the matter of permission — only if you would like me to, of course.'

'Oh!' Lady Allendale flushed. 'But, Mrs Darcy, you should not inconvenience yourself — you needn't go to such trouble — '

'Nonsense,' said Lady Caroline. 'She offered, did she not?'

'Yes, I did. And it would not even be untrue, Lady Allendale; I really would be delighted to have the pleasure of your company in town.'

'Thank you.' Lady Allendale paused. 'My dear Mrs Darcy, I really cannot express enough gratitude for your kindness . . .'

Elizabeth laughed outright. 'If you will use my Christian name and give me another muffin,' she said, 'I shall consider your debt repaid.'

* * *

_He could not love me half so much, loved he not honour more: _Elizabeth is paraphrasing Richard Lovelace's famous line from "To Lucasta": _I could not love thee, dear, so much/ Lov'd I not honour more._

Darcy references a Lord Annesley, brother to Lady Caroline, who -- he says -- Elizabeth met at Pemberley the previous summer. This, of course, did not explicitly occur in the novel; however, it's mentioned that Darcy brought with him a _large_ party of friends, and Mr Gardiner, Darcy, and Bingley fish with 'some' of the gentlemen from the house. It stands to reason, then, that there were a number of men (and probably women) at Pemberley, who were unimportant to the story and therefore left nameless. Elizabeth later recalls that Darcy was often unable to speak with her at Pemberley, presumably due to the number of people separating them, and instead talked to the Gardiners. Lord Annesley and his sisters, of course, are my own invention.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_'Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even by mentioned by any of us.'_  
— Lady Catherine de Bourgh to Elizabeth Bennet, 1812

'The storm is dying down,' said Elizabeth. 'We could go for a walk.'

Darcy glanced out the window, and only said 'I hope you have strong boots' before Elizabeth vanished. She had spent the last several days receiving a long line of callers, most courteous and none interesting, and after the unrelentingly well-bred questions, the constant curious glances, the many-layered conversations, she longed to escape the confines of the house. Prepared with boots, scarves, and a thick, heavy cloak, Elizabeth cheerfully met her husband at the foot of the stairs and walked outside with him.

The wind whipped at their hair and clothes, sending Elizabeth into fits of laughter. 'I want to see the wood,' she cried, turning away from the manor.

'No, the other way,' said Darcy, and taking her hand, led her down the correct path. For awhile, they were silent, enjoying the simple, quiet sounds of the breeze attacking the branches overheard, the crunch of their boots against the earth, their own ragged breaths. Elizabeth, growing up amid constant chaos and conflict, with a natural preference for society and wit, had rarely felt so at peace.

'I like it better,' she said aloud.

'I beg your pardon?'

Elizabeth smiled up at him. Against the cold delicate whiteness of the wood, he no longer appeared the Mr Darcy whose colourless, forbidding beauty would have suited a statue better than a human being. At this moment, he seemed not any of the different things he was to different people, but only a living breathing man.

'Elizabeth?' Darcy blinked snow out of his lashes. 'Is something wrong?'

'No!' She grinned, then remembered her response to his reprobate cousin. 'I was just thinking that . . . that I like Derbyshire better than Hertfordshire.'

'I am delighted,' said he, in his usual formal, self-conscious way, which had somehow, somewhere — _somewhen_, she thought whimsically — become endearing.

'Or perhaps it is only Pemberley and Longbourn.' She shrugged. 'Gracechurch Street was always much more _home_.'

Darcy gave her a rather odd look. She supposed the idea must seem strange to him — that a small house with no history could be more to her than a family estate — and hurriedly said, 'It is not large, and I could never walk very far without a servant, but it was always a great relief, my uncle and aunt are such sensible people . . .'

'I understand.' His brows drew together. 'I was only startled; at your age, I would not have called Pemberley home, either.'

'At my age?' She laughed up at him. 'You need not make yourself sound an antediluvian, Fitzwilliam, you are only a little older than I am.'

'Seven years,' he said. 'A great deal can happen in seven years.'

'A great deal,' replied Elizabeth, smiling, 'can happen in seven days. So what did you call home, seven years ago? Cambridge?'

'Of course not,' he said indignantly. 'I was at Oxford.'

She stared at him. His expression was perfectly grave, the set of his mouth bordering on the severe. 'I did not mean — ' she began, with a touch of impatience, then stopped, meeting his amused eyes. 'Fitzwilliam Darcy! Are you teasing me?'

'Apparently so; you are a bad influence on me. I usually only torment people I dislike.'

Her mind flashed back to the previous year — Darcy's dark head flinging back — a pointed glance at Elizabeth's book — his voice at once sharp and self-satisfied as he said, _To all of this, she must yet add something still more **substantial**, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading_ —

She declared, 'I shall flatter myself that I am not one of them.'

Darcy only glanced at her before continuing on his way, sedate as ever. 'The answer to your question, incidentally, is Houghton.'

'Houghton?' She was puzzled for a moment, then recalled their earlier topic of conversation. 'Oh, I see. Lord Ancaster's estate.'

'Yes.' Darcy added with emphasis, 'He is my mother's brother.'

'Like my uncle Gardiner,' she said, instantly understanding. 'That _is_ a coincidence . . . were you often at Houghton?'

'Yes.' At Elizabeth's quizzical look, he explained, 'I was sent to live with my grandparents when I was eight years old.'

'Oh! Were they fond of you?'

'My grandmother, I hope, remains so.—She is quite old, but very much in her right mind. Grandfather, also, was kind.'

'I see.' _And your uncle, was **he** kind?_ she wanted to ask, but did not need to. If Houghton remained 'home' by his twenty-first year, long after the late Lord Ancaster's death, Darcy had clearly retained close ties to the present earl.

After a moment of silence, Elizabeth set her jaw and said, 'You told me that your uncle wrote you a letter. What did he say?'

Darcy only shook his head, the half-strange, half-familiar look of sharp displeasure flashing over his face.

'It could not compare with Lady Catherine's, could it?' She tightened her fingers around his.

'Lady Catherine's letter,' said he, 'was . . . incomparable.'

Elizabeth burst out laughing. 'Come, Fitzwilliam, it cannot be too horrible. What did it say?'

To her surprise, he reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded letter. 'You can read it for yourself, if you would like.'

'Yes, thank you.'

Written in a cramped hand on fine, pressed paper, the letter began unceremoniously with her husband's Christian name. Elizabeth bit her lip. Even now, it was difficult to think that there was more to him than what _she_ saw; that the name she used conscientously, but was only now growing accustomed to, could be so easy and familiar to a perfect stranger. It was unjust, she knew, but still, she resented the very idea that others had a knowledge of him which, in some ways, ran far deeper than her own. She shook her head at her own folly and fixed her eyes on the letter.

_Fitzwilliam,_

_I must admit that my first impulse was to insist that you had taken leave of your senses to offer for this girl, but Catherine's and Richard's amusingly disparate accounts of your wife have given me reason to doubt my initial judgment. I certainly do not see the necessity for another dramatic estrangement; Catherine may have enough nephews that she can cast them off with impunity, but I do not enjoy that luxury. I will assume that Mrs Darcy's beauties of mind and character outweigh the other disadvantages attending her and that you know perfectly well what you are doing. I hope it is so, for your sake. Naturally, I will not tolerate any disrespect towards your wife, whatever her antecedents._

_I remain your affectionate uncle,_

_Ancaster  
_  
She glanced up at Darcy, who seemed scarcely able to meet her eyes.

'From this letter,' said Elizabeth, 'I should think that he is very fond of you.'

Darcy actually started. 'I beg your pardon?'

'My father said almost exactly the same thing — that I must be mad, to accept you. I think he even used the same phrase.' She smiled, quickening her steps to keep up with him. 'I could not blame him, but I _was_ upset that he should think such things of you, and still more, that I, his favourite, was causing him so much misery. If you are . . . distressed, over this, I shall not blame you.'

'I am not distressed, not over. . .' He waved his hand inarticulately.

'Fitzwilliam,' said Elizabeth, 'I was distressed over what my _mother_ thought. There is no reason you should not care about your family's disapproval. This is not Lady Catherine, so full of pride and conceit that there is scarcely room for anything else. Your uncle does not know me, he has every reason to suppose me the worst sort of fortune-hunter, yet he is at great pains to remain on good terms with you.' Looking up at his grim face, she gave him a warm, affectionate smile, pushing some wayward hair out of his eyes. 'He as much as says that he will believe whatever you tell him to believe, that he will honour your choice for no other reason than that I am your choice. He seems the sort of dignified, reserved kind of man who never says quite what he means and yet expects to be understood all the same.' She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. 'Now, who does that sound like?'

'Very subtle, Elizabeth.' He held out his hand, and she returned the letter. They did not speak for a short distance; then he sighed and said, 'I have replied to him. Civilly.'

'You are always — almost always — _civil_, Fitzwilliam.' She threw him a pointed glance.

'It is done, and done for the best, Elizabeth.'

'Very well.' She cleared her throat, eager to change the subject. 'Is this the hanging-wood? It looks so different from the sum — ' A sudden sharp breeze sent piles of snow rushing down upon their heads. Darcy made a muffled sound of irritation; Elizabeth giggled, then pushed the hood of her cloak back. 'Well! That seems an affirmative. Are you certain there are no mischievous shades about?'

'Every house has its legends, of course,' he replied austerely.

Elizabeth stopped in her tracks. 'Legends? Legends of what?' She seated herself on a wide log, staring up at him with wide, excited eyes. 'I want to hear all about it.'

'They are only old stories,' he said, leaning against a nearby tree and flicking snow off of his shoulders. 'Nothing probable or real . . .'

_'Fitzwilliam.'_ She crossed her arms and scowled. Darcy only smiled.

'My father might, perhaps, have mentioned . . . something about an uncle who forever haunted the place of his murder.'

'Murder!' Elizabeth gasped, thoroughly enjoying herself. 'What happened?'

Darcy shrugged. 'One of my predecessors was a vicious, wicked man, by all accounts without morals or conscience. If any depravity presented itself, he was the first to throw himself into it. However, his twin brother, younger by some few minutes, was just the opposite — a gentleman of integrity, honour, virtue — '

'A veritable saint,' Elizabeth surmised.

'Precisely. Edmond, this younger brother, intended to become a monk; he had, I believe, already joined the priesthood. Presumably he would have been an excellent one.' Quite cheerfully, he went on, 'However, a jealous husband tragically mistook him for his twin, and stabbed him to death.'

'Oh!' She considered. 'Which part of the house did he die in?'

Darcy actually grinned. 'It did not happen in the house, Elizabeth.' He pointed just behind her. 'It was right there . . . according to the legend, which, as I intimated, is almost certainly untrue.'

'Of course.' Nevertheless, she cast a suspicious glance over her shoulder, and quickly stepped away from the log. Taking his arm, she asked with a bright smile, 'Are there any other tales of grisly and untimely deaths?'

'Naturally,' he said, perfectly serene. 'Robert Darcy was executed in the courtyard, that was during Cromwell's time . . . Lady Margaret Darcy hung herself in the long gallery . . . and there is always Aunt Helen, she was guillotined . . .'

* * *

Only three days later, the Fitzwilliams descended _en masse_, ostensibly to deliver Miss Darcy. Thanks to Georgiana, the expected awkwardness, doubt, anxiety, were all forestalled — before Elizabeth caught more than a glimpse of her husband's family, his sister rushed ahead with a glad cry.

_'Fitzwilliam!'_

Darcy clasped Georgiana's outstretched hands with an expression of such open, unaffected delight that Elizabeth almost started. She had rarely seen anything quite like it in him, nor had she ever considered him to be, beyond herself, enmeshed in all the usual depth and complexity of human attachment; she suffered a twinge of discomfort even as an affectionate smile crept over her face. Though Elizabeth did not notice, two gentlemen and a lady glanced her way, their expressions softening infinitesimally.

The siblings kissed one another with all due decorum, and Darcy drew Georgiana to his side, threading her arm through his as her brief irradiating fervour seemed to collapse upon itself.

'You remember Elizabeth, of course,' he said gently. Elizabeth greeted her warmly, then turned to face the multitude of relations.

No, she corrected herself, not a multitude — though the room _seemed_ crowded, it was more than large enough for the company. Apparently immense force of personality was as much a family trait as dark hair. The Fitzwilliams might be many things, but insipid was not among them.

A gentleman of perhaps fifty or sixty years stepped forward. He was very tall, towering over everyone but Darcy, with thick black hair liberally streaked with silver, fierce grey eyes, and handsome features grown deep and carven with age. Elizabeth knew him for her husband's uncle without a word of introduction, for he looked exactly as Darcy would in twenty or thirty years.

'Uncle,' said Darcy, 'may I present to you my wife? Elizabeth, my uncle, the Earl of Ancaster.'

Lord Ancaster gave her a searching glance decidedly reminiscent of his nephew, then extended his hand and said, 'Mrs Darcy, please allow me to welcome you to our family.'

From behind him, another voice exclaimed, 'And let us hope we do not frighten you away from it!'

'Colonel Fitzwilliam?' Elizabeth's face lit up. Amidst the dark, handsome Fitzwilliams, he stood out like a weed in a bed of roses, but she had scarcely ever been so pleased to see a familiar face. The earl's eyebrows shot up.

'Darcy, Mrs Darcy, my congratulations to you both.' He smiled as warmly as ever he had done, but watched her with a trace of uncertainty in his expression. Elizabeth was very glad indeed when Darcy took three steps forward and stood firmly at her side, his hand resting lightly and protectively against her back as he threw a meaningful glance at his relations.

A deluge of introductions followed, beginning with the colonel's mother, Lady Ancaster. She had all of her younger son's looks and none of his charm, to all appearances one of that numerous class of females whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at their being any men in the world who can like them well enough to marry them. Thankfully, she said very little, and that in such a low murmur that Elizabeth caught only the word 'pug.'

'My daughter Lady Northbrook,' announced Lord Ancaster, gesturing towards a woman on his left, 'and her husband Lord Northbrook.'

The former instantly captured Elizabeth's attention, and not for the last time, due to the extraordinary resemblance she bore her father and his nephew. The cold, proud reserve of her manners, however, could not have endeared her to anybody, let alone Elizabeth, who found herself struggling against an instinctive repulsion that even she recognised as somewhat irrational.

'I hope you will be very happy,' Lady Northbrook said stiffly.

'Thank you, so do I.'

'I understand your father owns a small estate in Hertfordshire?'

'Yes,' Elizabeth replied, 'it is very small.'

'I suppose you met my cousin through Mr — Bingham?'

'Bing_ley_,' said Elizabeth through clenched teeth. 'He is my brother-in-law.'

'Oh, how lovely.'

Lord Ancaster took it upon himself to interfere. 'You already know my eldest son Lord Milton, I understand, but this is his wife, Lady Diana Fitzwilliam, and my cousin Mr Fitzwilliam.'

Lady Diana was less handsome and more brusque than her husband, but Elizabeth could not help preferring her to the other Fitzwilliams. 'It is an honour, Mrs Darcy. I do hope we shall see a great deal of you — Darcy, you cannot hide her away, she deserves to be seen. We _will_ not permit it. Mrs Darcy, you like society, do you not?'

'Yes, I do,' replied Elizabeth. 'I am certain my husband has no intentions of that sort, do you, dear?'

Darcy threw her a rueful look and said, 'Of course not.'

'Then I imagine that we shall know each other quite well before long.'

'Well, I am delighted to hear it,' said Lady Diana, pressing Elizabeth's hands. 'I shall look forward to seeing you often, Mrs Darcy.'

Elizabeth gave her a warm smile, trying to ignore Lady Northbrook's cold gaze. 'As will I.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Children of the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply; and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connection can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachment are ever outlived._  
— Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Elizabeth spread butter over her muffin, scarcely able to acknowledge her husband's steady regard. Upon retiring after the long afternoon amongst the Fitzwilliams, she had been ready, nay, eager, to reaffirm the strength of their attachment. Now, however, her cheeks blazed at the recollection of her unprecedented forwardness and she said hastily, 'I . . . I was surprised to see Lord Milton yesterday. I rather thought that he was not on good terms with his father.'

Darcy lifted a brow, but only replied, 'No, he is not; my uncle and my cousin have been on bad terms for nearly twenty years, but they would never dream of betraying a private quarrel to the world. In public, they stand together, whatever their personal differences.'

She could not help thinking that the words applied to more than just Lord Ancaster and Lord Milton. It had taken her very little effort to realise that whatever the Fitzwilliams' disapprobation of her, nobody would hear a word of it. It might have been different had she met them before her marriage, but as matters now stood, she was one of their own and they permitted no dissension in their ranks.

'That is why you suffered Lord Milton's imposition for so long, is it not?' she asked, remembering the explanation that, only yesterday, had seemed so insufficient.

'My _sufferance_,' said Darcy, his eyes hardening, 'was pure hypocrisy.'

'Oh, come, Fitzwilliam. It is hardly your fault that he took advantage of your loyalty, and you should hardly regret being too generous for your own good.'

His mouth twitched, but he said stubbornly, 'I cannot so easily reconcile it.'

'There is nothing to reconcile. You believed you were doing right, and when you ceased to believe yourself right, you ceasing doing it.' All embarrassment forgotten, she favoured him with a warm, affectionate look and a vibrant smile. 'It is quite humbling, I assure you. I shall become a languid insipid wife who breathlessly and adoringly hangs on your every word, if you are not careful to check your goodness.' She burst out laughing at his astonished incredulity, only stopping when she caught sight of Georgiana hesitating near the door.

'Good morning, dear,' said Darcy, his attention snapping to his sister, who glanced nervously between them and said not a word. There was something at once endearing and troubling about her countenance, the strong even features so akin to his, but the expression of shy, tremulous anxiety like nothing that had ever crossed Fitzwilliam Darcy's face.

Elizabeth concealed her instinctive pity and directed a smile in Georgiana's direction. 'Please, sit down. Have you had the opportunity to practise on the beautiful pianoforte I saw last summer?'

The other girl immediately brightened. 'Oh yes. I have never heard a finer one, it sounds beautiful.'

'Nothing,' said Darcy, with a gravely affectionate look, 'is too good for you. Could you pass the marmalade?'

'Your brother is determined to spoil everyone in his life, I think.'

'I seem to have failed, then,' he responded.

Georgiana's dark eyes widened, a flush covering her cheeks, and after several aborted efforts, she managed to speak. 'I — I understand you play, Mrs Darcy? I hope you will allow us the pleasure of hearing you.'

'Whether it is a pleasure I will leave to you to decide,' Elizabeth said cheerfully, 'but you must use my Christian name, or I shall feel positively infirm.'

'Oh!' Georgiana cried, 'I am dreadfully sorry, please forgive me.'

Elizabeth laughed. 'I was only teasing you a little, Georgiana. You may call me whatever you wish, though I would prefer "Elizabeth." '

It never entered her head to say _Lizzy_ or _Eliza_. Both sprang out of familiarity and affection, so they did not bother her greatly, but still they were the names given to a young girl who had never wanted them. Nearly everyone said 'Mrs Darcy' now, and Darcy alone always, always used her proper name, 'Elizabeth,' and in rare, intense moments, his voice dropped, shifted, until the long syllables became an endearment.

'Then "Elizabeth" it shall be,' said Georgiana, her head bowed, but her tone firm.

* * *

After breakfast, Georgiana left to practise on the harp, and Elizabeth, after gazing out the window, gave her husband a meaningful look. 

A wry smile touched his lips and was gone. 'Would you care to ride out, perhaps?' he asked.

'Why, yes, sir. How did you guess?—but I do not ride.'

Darcy seemed profoundly horrified. 'At one-and-twenty, you have never learnt to ride — madam?'

'No, _Fitzwilliam_, I have not, but I should very much like to learn, if someone would condescend to teach me. In fact, I insist upon it.' She tossed her head, then laughed. 'I shall never discover all of the park on foot.'

'Excellent,' said he by way of response, and before she quite knew what had happened, she was in a scarlet riding habit and atop a docile palfrey, ready to begin.

Active, fearless, and, though small, strongly made, she seemed almost formed to be a horsewoman. Within a very few moments, riding came as naturally to her as breathing, and to her pure genuine pleasure was added an enjoyment of Darcy's company, guidance, and approval. Soon, by her wish, they rose to a canter, which came just as easily.

'Elizabeth, wait a moment,' said Darcy, and paused to direct her management of the bridle, his gloved fingers taking hold of hers. Elizabeth caught her breath, lifting her gaze from their clasped hands; his grey eyes, once so chillingly aloof that she could imagine any evil of him, caught hers with a look that had heretofore only been exchanged between shadow and candlelight. He bent his head towards her — she lifted her face — and, as one, they glanced over their shoulders at the eagerly watching grooms.

Elizabeth sighed, and Darcy flushed. Then he consulted his watch.

'Tragically,' he said, 'I promised Georgiana that we would return before three o'clock, so we must postpone further lessons until tomorrow.'

'She rides for her health, does she not?' At Darcy's affirmative, Elizabeth demurely cast down her eyes and said, 'We must not be late, then; it would be terribly selfish to cut her time short.'

'Indeed.'

They rode back, and as they passed through a gate into the lane, Darcy dismounted, giving his horse over to a groom, and led Georgiana's palfrey towards the stables. His sister already waited there, her expression rather more nervous than usual.

'My dear Georgiana,' Elizabeth cried, 'I do hope we have not inconvenienced you. We did try to return in time.'

Georgiana, rather than expressing any kind of resentment, seemed overwhelmed with gratitude at this consideration. 'N-no,' she stammered, 'not at all — I came out early, you see.'

'Well, I am very glad to hear it.' With Darcy's help, Elizabeth sprang down. 'I hope you will have a very pleasant ride; she seems a dear, delightful, beautiful animal.'

'S-she is,' replied Georgiana, and stared at the ground.

Husband and wife took their leave shortly thereafter, Elizabeth wrapping her fingers around her husband's arm, conscious of every eye on her.

'I hope,' he said, anxiety flashing over his face, 'that you are not fatigued? I did not think — '

Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. 'Nonsense,' she said, and smiled up at him, her dark eyes clear and steady. 'I am very strong; _you_ know that nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not like.'

* * *

Elizabeth's call at Enley led to another, of course; first Lady Caroline and her husband, then Lady Caroline and Lady Allendale alone, and within days the three women met as often as Elizabeth could be spared. They used each other's Christian names, wandered about their husbands' parks, and constantly talked of fashion, books, assemblies, and charity. Soon everyone in the neighbourhood knew that Mrs Darcy, Lady Allendale, and Lady Caroline Villiers were all thick as thieves. 

Not long afterwards, Darcy found a headache slipping away as he stood at a window, watching his wife and her companions laugh beneath a Spanish chestnut.

'She seems very happy,' said the colonel, his voice as neutral as he could make it. Darcy met his eyes squarely.

'She is.' Then he smiled. 'She hardly ventures out of the doors without one or the other of them, or both, at her side.'

'It is a very pretty picture.'

Darcy lifted his brows. 'Yes.—Tell me, cousin, did you come eleven miles to remark upon my wife's felicity?'

Colonel Fitzwilliam only laughed.

That afternoon, however, Elizabeth went to Lambton with no company but that of her servants. The Gardiners' imminent arrival had reminded her of an earlier kindness, during a time when Caroline and Honoria would not have noticed her existence.

'Little Meg — Mrs Gardiner, that is — was always such a dear girl,' Mrs William's said, flustered. The young lady who wore her jewels and finery with such careless confidence could not have formed a greater contrast to the modest sitting-room, to Mrs Williams herself. She knew perfectly well that her chairs, her refreshments, her entire home were none of them good enough for Mrs Darcy.

'I never knew her as a girl,' said Elizabeth, with her most winning smile, 'but she is certainly the dearest aunt I can imagine. We expect her tomorrow. I am sure she will be delighted to see you again; she told me of what a pleasure it was to see all her old haunts, and old friends, again.'

'You are very good.' Mrs Williams stared at the stained and worn rug beneath her feet.

Some ten minutes of labourious conversation later, Elizabeth left, relieved and disappointed. She could only hope that time would warm the elderly shopkeeper's reception; she had been so charming and friendly last year. Still, it was impossible to ignore the curious glances directed her way — a butcher, a farmer, an officer, several plainly-clad girls . . . Elizabeth's gaze swivelled back.

'Colonel Fitzwilliam?'

He crossed the street and bowed. 'Mrs Darcy.'

'What an — an unexpected pleasure, sir. I thought you were in Yorkshire.' She had hardly spoken to him since April, and though as charming and well-mannered as ever, his old friendliness was diluted by a good measure of reserve.

'There was a matter my father wished to discuss with Darcy,' he replied, 'and I thought to buy a gift for my cousin. A ribbon, perhaps.'

Elizabeth's mouth twitched. 'Do try and get him one in blue, or red, or anything not black.'

'It is a little monotonous,' the colonel said, chuckling, then quickly sobered. 'Mortimer's shop is just over the way, there . . . would you care to join me? I could use a lady's opinion.'

Elizabeth accepted the proffered arm, rather curious as to what purpose lay behind the pretext. However, ten minutes of inane conversation later, he had spoken of nothing more significant than the colour and shape of the ribbons he intended to purchase for Miss Darcy.

Her patience finally exhausted, she said, 'I believe, sir, that the green would be most flattering. For her eyes. Was there anything else you wished to discuss?'

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed and set a crimson ribbon down. 'I thought you were flirting with him,' he said abruptly.

'I beg your pardon?'

He muttered something under his breath, snatched up several pieces of green silk, and after buying them from a bewildered Mortimer, escorted Elizabeth out into the sunlight. 'Darcy would have my head if he knew I was speaking to you like this.'

_You have scarcely said anything yet_, she thought, but only replied, 'Is that why you are in Lambton?'

'I did want to get something for Georgiana.' He glanced down at her, his gaze uncharacteristically sombre. 'Nevertheless, I did also . . . I hope you will not be offended.'

She could not help but notice that despite his resemblance to his plain mother, Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyes were the same shade of dark grey as Darcy's. With a sigh, she said, 'I am perfectly willing to hear what you have to say, colonel, although I doubt you can improve upon your aunt's performance.'

'My aunt!' He looked horrified. 'No, I . . .' Taking a deep breath, the colonel began walking down the street, running his fingers through his hair.

'You were saying something about my flirtations with my husband?' she prompted archly.

'I was speaking of the spring,' he said. 'At Kent. Before you were married. Miss— Mrs Darcy, you must understand that I personally believe you to be a very admirable woman, and I certainly mean no disrespect to you as my cousin's wife. But I cannot disregard the evidence of my own eyes and ears.'

Elizabeth blinked.

'I knew of Darcy's feelings for you, of course — anyone with eyes could have seen them — and I really believed that you returned them. Your manner towards him was so . . . well, never mind that.' She winced. 'The point is, after we talked about Bingley — my apologies for that, by the way — I realised that your feelings were in fact just the opposite, and your interest in him came from. . .' He made a bewildered gesture. 'It came from some sort of fascinated dislike, or — I hardly know how to describe it. I am a simple man, and either I like people or I do not.'

'My _interest_ in him?'

Ignoring that, he rushed on, 'In any case, I heard nothing more of the matter until Lady Catherine showed up at Darcy's house in London, suggesting that you and Darcy were to be married. He was every bit as shocked as I — and then, a few weeks later, we received a letter informing us of his engagement to you.' He let out a sharp exhalation of breath. 'I could only think of one reason why a woman of your calibre would consent to marry a man you dislike as much as you apparently disliked Darcy in Kent.'

'There is certainly one which springs to mind,' Elizabeth agreed, carefully watching his expression. 'I might have changed my opinion. I might — perish the thought — have fallen in love with him.'

The colonel's jaw dropped. Then a smile broke across his face. 'Oh! Well, that is . . . that is excellent —I could not be more delighted for you — please accept my humblest apologies — I hope you understand, I — we — were, are, only concerned for my cousin's happiness . . . that is —'

'Though my life would be simpler if I believed otherwise, I do understand,' she assured him. 'Naturally you are fond of him, and did not know what to think.' She paused. 'I imagine you shared your concerns with your family?'

'Of course.' Colonel Fitzwilliam still seemed puzzled, but had clearly recovered his former buoyant good humour. 'I do not think we talked of anything else for a week. Oh! I see what you mean. I am sorry, then, if it has made matters any more difficult for you.'

With a sigh, Elizabeth said, 'Undoubtedly they would have thought me the cleverest little fortune-hunter in any case.'

The colonel flinched, but replied cheerfully enough, 'I know we must seem very officious, but it is only that we are so used to looking after Darcy. He is the youngest man in the family, you see, so we have always been rather protective of him, and he's my father's favourite. That makes a difference.'

'Yes,' Elizabeth agreed, 'I am sure it does.' She could not help falling silent. Her husband occasionally mentioned his father with a sort of distant, approving respect — he had said, once, that Mr Darcy would have approved of her. Mr Darcy, however, was dead. Lord Ancaster, who had written that letter so reminiscent of her own father, he was alive. She wondered if there was a chessboard in Houghton's library, if the earl had taught his nephew the game and recommended the books which charmed his leisure hours.

He would have taught him other things, too. She could almost hear Darcy's voice, cold and proud as it had been then: _Those are not the only objections. The very strong family obstacles — not only the exceptionable situation of your relations, but the expectations of **mine**— _Elizabeth's mouth firmed. 'I know your family is very fond of my husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I am sorry, for his sake, that you — that they are disappointed with his choice. I can hardly regret it, though. We are happy.'

'It will blow over,' he told her. 'Whatever their faults, they are not blind. They will see the truth, eventually.'

'Thank you.' Elizabeth thought back to the easy words from both cousins. _My father's favourite._ 'Forgive my impertinence, colonel, but — I remember being surprised, back in Kent, that you resented Mr Darcy so little. Knowing what I do now, I find it little short of astonishing.'

Colonel Fitzwilliam shrugged. 'You would have to have seen him, I think — known what he was like, when we were children together. Nobody with a drop of sense could have envied him.'

'What was he like?' Elizabeth asked curiously. 'I know he was delicate, Mrs Reynolds told me that much, though I can hardly imagine it.'

The colonel hesitated, then gave a quick bark of laughter. 'He was Georgiana with a touch of confidence and a dash of obstinancy. Rather high-strung, but quiet, obedient. Very well-behaved, most of the time.'

'_That_ I can imagine.'

'Mrs Reynolds was right, though; he was frail and my aunt and uncle were immensely overprotective — when they remembered that they had a son at all, that is. My sister and I had to teach him how to play games, and for some time, his best friend was a cat.' He grinned reminiscently. 'Foul-tempered beast it was, too.—As for my father, I would not have wanted his attention in any case; I was half-terrified of him and had no idea where Darcy found the nerve to follow him about as he did.'

'Whatever your reasons,' said Elizabeth, 'I am very glad that he has such a steady friend.'

* * *

They returned to Pemberley, the colonel riding alongside the carriage. Elizabeth was glad for the chance to recollect her thoughts, her mind darting from Bennets to Fitzwilliams, from Longbourn to Houghton to Pemberley, from her self-possessed husband as a frail, nervous child, to the latest letter from her mother, and back to the Fitzwilliam clan. 

As they walked towards the house, she said cleverly, 'I suppose the earl came to discuss Lord Milton?'

'I imagine so,' replied the colonel. 'Darcy must have told you about my brother's, er, current plight?'

'Yes, after he came to ask him for money.'

Colonel Fitzwilliam blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'It was a few weeks ago, just after you all came down from London. He joined us at Pemberley and spent a few hours closeted away with Mr Darcy.'

'My brother is an utter— ' The colonel closed his mouth on whatever word he had intended to use, and went on hotly, 'I really believed him to possess some sense of decorum. After everything he owes Darcy — everything we all do — how could he possibly show such rank ingratitude? You could not have been married above a fortnight. Forgive my intemperance, Mrs Darcy, but . . .' He shook his head, cheeks flushed with angry colour.

With a quirk of her lips, she said, 'I could hardly find your loyalty to my husband offensive, sir, though I really think that Fitzwilliam was much more offended that Lord Milton had not yet called on your parents.'

Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed, then sighed. 'He would be.'

The conversation slowed as they entered the house, servants rushing forward to relieve them of coat and pelisse, and ceased altogether when they parted, the colonel to deliver Georgiana's ribbons, Elizabeth in search of her husband. She found him almost immediately, in the library with his uncle, but remained silent and unnoticed in the doorway, gazing at them as _they_ gazed at an unfamiliar painting.

Some failure of imagination had clearly afflicted the artist, for though it depicted two girls of about sixteen, their faces were identical in every particular but expression. In that, they could not have been more different, one holding her sister to her, her gaze fierce and dauntless, the other smiling radiantly. They were Fitzwilliams, of course — with their glossy dark hair and dramatic grey eyes, the sternly handsome features too harsh for their girlish faces, they could not be anything else. She _knew_ those faces.

'I hope you do not mind, Fitzwilliam,' said Lord Ancaster, sounding more uncertain than she had ever imagined he could. 'I always meant — I always meant it for you, when you married. I never dreamed that . . . well, never mind that. Matters being what they are, I thought you might want it, for Georgiana.'

Darcy said nothing; she could not see his eyes, but his fingers were clenched and his skin white. Then he reached out, his fingers brushing the second girl's painted cheek, and said, 'I am . . . not at all offended, sir.'

The earl's relief was almost palpable. 'I am glad to hear it, Fitzwilliam.'

Elizabeth knew, then, why she recognised them. Of course she did. Though she had never seen Lady Anne or any image of her, Lady Catherine could hardly be forgotten — and by all accounts, the sisters had been very alike.

Darcy dropped his hand and Elizabeth frowned, remembering that Jane had once held her just so. 'Fitzwilliam, there you are,' she said brightly. 'And Lord Ancaster, what a pleasure.'

Both men spun to face her, and on her husband's face she saw a flash of joy replace the grim longing of a moment before. 'Elizabeth,' he said, in a voice she did not often hear; then — 'I did not see you.'

'I thought not,' she said, truthfully enough, and smiled brilliantly, unable to restrain her own delight. Yet as time passed, she found her mind returning to what she had seen, of what a mere painting meant to Lady Anne's brother and son. And then she thought of the nervous, gossipy, vulgar letter she had hidden away, dreading the necessary response to it — of her own mother. They were not close and never had been; Mrs Bennet always preferred her eldest and youngest daughters, and often resented her second. Though she would have defended any of her daughters to the death, for no greater reason than that they were _her_ daughters, she did not like Elizabeth, who was too much her father's child, too much his favourite. For her part, Elizabeth could not remember a time when she had not been bitterly ashamed of her mother, of being forced to acknowledge her. It was not a sentiment she was proud of, nor one which she spent much time thinking on.

Later, once the Fitzwilliams were gone and Darcy back to his usual slew of correspondence, Elizabeth took out the letter again. It did not improve on a second reading. She shut her eyes and pressed it against her forehead, remembering that brief, terrible hunger in her husband's face. She had never been grateful enough; she had never known that she had something to be grateful of.

Her mother, whatever her faults, was alive.

The reply was a matter of mere moments, words sliding out from under her pen as easily as they always did.

_Dear Mama, I am delighted to hear that you are all in such excellent health, and that your nerves have plagued you so little. Your new gown sounds lovely, and never mind what Mrs Long says; Viscountess Allendale, a very particular friend of mine who is only just married herself, says that long sleeves are still the height of fashion . . . _

* * *

Bhavana: Why, thank you! You are quite welcome. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms._

— Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 61

About halfway through December, Elizabeth had the dubious pleasure of meeting her nearest neighbours, Lord and Lady Cardwell of Shiringham. The former was a cipher; the latter could have given Lady Catherine lessons in dignified impertinence.

Elizabeth and Darcy vacillated between annoyance and amusement; Georgiana suffered no such indecision. Plainly, she was terrified of the disagreeable pair, and likely the rest of humanity into the bargain.

Elizabeth, preoccupied with her new husband and responsibilities, had not concerned herself much with her sister-in-law. She had been friendly and open, no more. However, Georgiana's perpetual timidity and anxiety could not but provoke concern, and a desire to do more for her.

'Come, Georgiana,' she said, as cheerfully as she could. 'We are sisters, and we have hardly spoken five words together.'

Georgiana, obedient as always, accepted her arm and walked beside her, but said nothing. Elizabeth wracked her mind for any subject which might set the girl at ease.

'My uncle and aunt could never settle on an age for the house,' she finally began, 'but of course, you would know.'

Georgiana flushed up, but answered readily enough, rattling off information so quickly that she almost tripped over her tongue. Clearly the tales of her family's past had been drummed into her head as thoroughly as into Darcy's, and just as clearly, she shared her brother's fascination with their past. For the first time, Georgiana's dark eyes shone with animation and feeling, as she talked of Sir Alain d'Arcy, a brave Norman who saved the Conqueror's life and received the Pemberley lands in return. Little but the chapel remained of that earlier manor — then she cut herself off.

'I hope not boring you,' she said penitently. 'I can get very dull when I talk about family history.'

Elizabeth gave her a warm smile. 'My dear Georgiana, Pemberley is my home now; your family is mine. Nothing could interest me more — except your brother, and on that subject I can get unbearably tedious, so let us return to Pemberley. The chapel is really that old?'

'Ye-es, though I think the extra wing was added later.' Georgiana shot her an uneasy glance, then squared her shoulders. 'We do not use it any more, it is so small and old, but I could show you, if you would like. Nobody has been there for years but I know where it is.'

Elizabeth assented eagerly; she had loved Pemberley from the first, and the chapel had already captured her imagination. Her pulse quickened as Georgiana, walking with an easy, graceful confidence more akin to her brother than herself, led her to the small dark room where the earliest masters and mistresses of Pemberley had knelt in prayer.

Plainly, it had not been used for that purpose in some time — she should have known, of course. They always attended the grand church in Kympton. Still, she was surprised to see the ancient place filled with what could only be called _clutter_: statues, piles of books, faded tapestries and literally dozens of covered paintings. Seven or eight were arranged in a suspiciously neat half-circle, leaning against assorted furnishings; the rest had been stacked here and there with little care.

Elizabeth stood in silence, the frail sunlight shining through a multicoloured glass window, said something to Georgiana. Then she asked,

'May I look at the paintings?'

'They are as much yours as mine,' said her sister-in-law, with a befuddled look, and wandered off.  
Elizabeth took a deep breath, then reached out a curious hand to the nearest painting. She lifted the sheet, prepared for — she knew not what, and —

— and met the cold dark eyes of a younger, and somehow wearier, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Elizabeth could not keep back an astonished gasp, inadvertently drawing Georgiana's attention. The girl joined her, a small black blur in one hand, and her own eyes widened.

'Why,' she exclaimed, 'that is my mother!'

Elizabeth started. True, the languid, wistful demeanour had nothing of Lady Catherine about it, yet the resemblance to the woman's living sister was far greater than that she bore her younger self.

Then, she looked beyond the picture's enigmatic subject, to the boy standing behind her, his face dominated by a familiar pair of brilliant grey eyes. The arch of the brows, pallor of the skin, even the high slash of cheekbones, all but the expression of acute misery were unmistakably Darcy's.

Georgiana said, 'I thought all the other paintings had been destroyed, except Lord Ancaster's. Fitzwilliam said — '

_Destroyed?_ thought Elizabeth, and remembered the Earl bringing his sisters' portrait as a peace offering. He had spoken, to be sure, as if it were the only one, and yet — 'He must not know,' she said, nor your mother's family.' She tore her eyes away from her youthful husband and found herself staring at the object in Georgiana's hands, a skinny black kitten.

Elizabeth instantly recalled Darcy and Fitzwilliam's tales of her husband's first true friend, a volatile feline he had rescued at the tender age of four. An involuntary smile crept across her face. 'Why — did you find that here?'

Georgiana lifted pleading eyes, as green as those of the creature in her hand. 'Yes, under one of the pews. He looks so hungry — do you think there is anything we can do for him? I'm sure it is not proper but I do not think Fitzwilliam will be angry — '

'Oh! he shan't be, I assure you,' replied Elizabeth, her mouth twitching, and whisked the girl away to her brother.

Darcy, of course, could not have been less angry; instead, he abandoned his estate business to take Georgiana, Elizabeth, and the kitten to the kitchens, where (to general amusement) he instructed his sister on the proper care and management of starving animals. Elizabeth stood a small distance away, watching them with a tenderness almost unknown among the sharp, fierce feelings which generally ruled her.

'You do not mind?' Georgiana whispered, lifting her head to gaze at her brother with a frank, unconditional faith Elizabeth could not imagine in any of her own younger sisters.

'Of course not,' said Darcy. His mouth twitched, then firmed, all mirth leaving his face. ''I will never disapprove of an act of kindness, my dear, provided that you consider the ramifications and carry it through to the end. Never leave such an endeavour half-done, however; it is better to do nothing at all than to raise hopes and then dash them, particularly when the recipient of such _kindness_ has no other dependence than on your good will.'

'Yes, sir. What am I going to do, then?'

Elizabeth gazed at their heads bent together, dark hair falling over pale, earnest faces. They were not the same, not at all, but sometimes so very similar, for all the years and miles which had so often separated them. She could only smile at the sight.

* * *

_My dear Lizzy,_

_I wish you joy. If you love Mr Darcy half so well as I do my dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a-year; but however do not speak to Mr Darcy about it, if you would rather not._

_Yours etc_

Elizabeth sat very still, giving her tumbling thoughts enough time to slow into coherence, and re-read the note. Oh, it was so very Lydia, the tone and manner were perfectly hers. That admitted no doubt; it could only have come from Lydia's pen and Lydia's ambition. And yet —

And yet it was equally impossible not to see Wickham's mind and sentiments behind every word.

True, their income was hardly sufficient for a couple so heedless and extravagant as they; but Elizabeth was not so foolish as to think that any money she sent would be saved up for expenses. Of course not. At best, Lydia would buy a new bonnet or trinket before Wickham ever saw it — yet something must be done for her and, in time, for their children.

Instinctively, Elizabeth glanced at her husband. He sat with his usual tranquil intensity, legs stretched out and cheek resting against his hand as he read _Self-Control_, one of his sister's novels. On his face was a familiar expression of amused distaste.

He would know what to do, how to manage such an endeavour. He had done it often enough before. She bit back bitter resentment at the thought. Did it always come back to this, time after time? No wonder he so loathed Wickham; but she loathed him more.

Georgiana struck a dischordant note on her harp, and after a few moments' mutterings, turned to her brother.

'Try E,' he said absently, his eyes still fixed on the book.

The song began again, lilting and lovely, and this time continued unhindered.

For several moments, Elizabeth watched them, her husband and his sister, a sense of fierce protectiveness rushing through her veins. It was not an unfamiliar sensation, of course — _someone_ had to watch over Jane — but it felt different from what had gone before. They were different; elegant, even sophisticated, but at the same time so peculiarly innocent. Tears sprang to Georgiana's eyes at the smallest, most insignificant kindnesses; and Darcy, worse still, seemed always so _surprised_ that she should put herself to any trouble over him.

Wickham. How _dare_ he?—how dare he impose himself, after all that he had done to them? And how could she bring this back to them? No; neither would endure another moment's pain for his sake, not if Elizabeth had anything to say about it. She would think of something, herself; some way to make him understand that Darcy would not be prevailed upon, never again.

She sat in a daze of thought, making plans and discarding them with equal rapidity, and only remembered to hide Lydia's note away with the arrival of a servant.

'Mr Gardiner, Mrs Gardiner, Master Gardiner, Miss Gardiner, Miss Amelia Gardiner, and Master John Gardiner,' he intoned, and at the sight of her family, Elizabeth sprang up, Darcy immediately behind her.

'Lizzy!'

'My dear aunt!'

'Sir, madam — I hope your journey was pleasant . . .'

Elizabeth had never been so delighted to see them.

* * *

The next morning was bright and clear, so Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner went out in the promised phaeton. The gentlemen were outside as well, but Mr Gardiner expropriated Darcy almost immediately, and with their wives' permission they left, talking of business and politics while Amelia trailed behind.

'You look very well, Lizzy,' said Mrs Gardiner. 'I can see that marriage becomes you.'

Elizabeth blushed and laughed. 'My marriage, perhaps. I never dreamed that it would be . . . what it is.'

'Of course not. How could you have known?'

It all crowded her mind, rubies and silk and strands of pearls — haughty servants, tedious accounts, disapproving relations — the lovely lane beneath the Spanish chestnuts, where she often wandered arm-in-arm with Caroline and Honoria — Georgiana's shy adoration . . . and, of course, there was Darcy. She thought of him matching his stride to hers as they walked together, his hand warm against her back — or meeting her gaze across the room, his fleeting smile expressive of all the understanding and shared amusement she searched for. That, somehow, was as dear to her as his lips against her hand, the quick flash of passion in his eyes and her own.

'Lizzy?'

Elizabeth turned to Mrs Gardiner, crying impulsively, 'Oh, aunt, I am so happy!'

Mrs Gardiner studied her niece's radiant face, then smiled and touched her cheek. 'And I am very happy for you, Lizzy. Now, what have you been doing with yourself?'

'Oh, I hardly know where to begin.' Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth caught her aunt's faint shiver, and held out her enormous silver muff.

'Thank you, dear. It it very different from Longbourn?'

'Yes. No.' They both laughed. 'You know how it was; Papa managed nearly everything and Mama would not have let us within ten yards of the kitchen. I was never mistress of a house; this would all be much simpler if I had been, though rather less interesting.'

'I daresay you would have found something to pique your interest,' Mrs Gardiner said dryly. 'Pemberley is not Longbourn, after all.'

'No, not at all!—there were only eleven servants to remember, at home. I keep confusing the parlourmaids. Mrs Reynolds tries to help, but . . .' Elizabeth could not help smiling. 'Oh, I could not get along without her, but her memory!—she can remember what happened ten or twenty years ago, but not last week. If not for my Sarah, I should never discover most of what passes here; she brings me most of the gossip. If only she could manage my hair half so well!'

'Your hair looks lovely, Lizzy.'

Elizabeth fingered the strands about her neck. 'It is so dull and lank,' she said mournfully. 'It never stays curled for more than a half-hour, and Sarah — well, I am very fond of her, but I did not bring her for the sake of my appearance. She is improving, though, which is more than Roberts can claim; my friend Honoria's maid has been taking her in hand.'

'Roberts?'

'Mr Darcy's valet.' Elizabeth's mouth twitched. 'Oh, I should not laugh at the poor man. You see, he is about Mrs Reynolds' age, but he has been with the family much longer, and he is the most dreadfully condescending, self-important little man you can imagine. He positively worships the ground that my husband stalks on, and he makes it clear with every glance that I am a vastly unworthy successor to the Lady Anne . . . or rather, he tries to. He might be more successful were he not stone-blind.'

Mrs Gardiner's warm laughter rang out. 'Oh, Lizzy. Only you — and only he! The two of you are very well-matched, I think.'

Elizabeth smiled ruefully. 'Of course we are,' she said.

For awhile, they talked largely of inconsequential matters, Elizabeth interrupting her own conversation to point out particular beauties of the park. Mrs Gardiner observed it all with a sort of bemused delight.

Once, she looked towards Lambton and said,'I grew up a stone's throw from Pemberley, and I thought nothing in the world could be grander or more lovely. I never — '

Before she could finish the sentence, however, the last curve in the circuit brought them near the stream and Darcy, Mr Gardiner, and Amelia. Both women smiled at the sight of their husbands, Mr Gardiner speaking rapidly, full of energy and enthusiasm, his hands moving in quick dramatic patterns, Darcy leaning against a tree as he listened with grave interest, neither supercilious nor condescending, yet from the tilt of his head to the heel of his boots, every inch lord of the manor.

'Mama!' cried Amelia, and both men turned in some surprise, then immediately joined them, walking over to stand beside the phaeton.

'Well, Margaret,' said Mr Gardiner, 'you have finally been all around the park, so you may be happy now.'

'I hope, madam, that Pemberley has answered your expectations,' added Darcy, looking at Mrs Gardiner as if she were twenty years his senior instead of five.

'How could it not? You have carved yourself a very pretty piece of heaven, Mr Darcy.'

'Thank you, Mrs Gardiner,' he said, his eyes briefly lingering on the wood, 'but it is not to my credit.'

Elizabeth shot him an incredulous glance. 'If your relations are to be trusted, it is. Colonel Fitzwilliam told me that when he first returned here, he scarcely recognised it for Pemberley.'

'Well — ' he hesitated, colouring a little, then said, 'I daresay his partiality leads him to exaggerate.'

'Oh, that must be it, of course!' She shook her head and turned to her uncle. 'Perhaps you would care to join my aunt, sir? I did not mean to steal her for so long; and I really must walk. Aunt, you can take him through the north part of the wood.'

The Gardiners assented, so Elizabeth sprang out of the carriage with only a very little assistance from her husband.

'Resting still fatigues you, eh?' Mr Gardiner gave his niece an expressive smile, which Elizabeth cheerfully returned.

'I am afraid so, sir.'

'Amelia, let Mr Darcy help you into the phaeton,' said Mrs Gardiner.

Amelia gave the horses one frightened look and attached herself to Darcy's trouser leg.

_'Amelia.'_

'Oh,' Elizabeth said, taking Darcy's arm, 'we would be delighted to have her with us, aunt.'

'If you are certain she would not be an imposition . . .'

'Of course not,' said Darcy, favouring the little girl with a slight smile.

Amelia beamed and accepted Elizabeth's outstretched hand. 'Good-bye, Mama, good-bye, Papa!' she cried, and soon they were gone, Mr Gardiner's arm around his wife's shoulders.

'Would you care to explain that performance?' Darcy enquired in a low voice, shortening his strides to match Elizabeth's and Amelia's.

'I thought they might enjoy the scenery,' Elizabeth said innocently. 'They have very little opportunity for it in London, with so much to keep them at home, and the house is so small and — crowded.'

'The scenery,' he repeated. 'I see. The north wood, after all, may be an inconvenient distance from the house, but it is quite _sceni_c.'

'That is exactly what I thought.' Their eyes met over their little cousin's head in a quick flash of understanding.

'Cousin Lizzy,' Amelia announced, 'are you really married to Mr Darcy?'

Elizabeth laughed. 'Yes, indeed! You may ask him yourself, if you do not believe me.'

'But why?'

'Amelia!' she cried, and the child scowled, turning her bewildered gaze from Elizabeth to Darcy.

'You are very nice,' she informed him, 'and I like you much better than Mr Wicked.'

Elizabeth made a peculiar gasping sound; Darcy said solemnly, 'I am honoured, Miss Gardiner.'

'But . . . but if it was me, I should not want to marry someone so much prettier than I was!'

Elizabeth and Darcy stared at her; then, unable to restrain themselves any longer, they both burst out laughing.

'I beg your pardon,' Darcy managed. 'I — I am very flattered.'

'You should have married _Jane._ Then you would still be my cousin — and Lizzy could have married Mr Bingley! After all, he is only so pretty as she is, so you would all match.'

Darcy looked both amused and slightly ill. 'Unfortunately for your aesthetic sensibilities, Miss Gardiner, people seldom marry to match.'

'Well, why do they, then? Why did you?'

'Er,' he said, and shot a glance at his wife. She only grinned. 'There are any number of reasons. We did so because . . . we wished to be together.'

'Oh. But why — '

Thankfully, Amelia's attention was then diverted by an intrepid squirrel, and for the next twenty minutes, the Darcys talked of birds and beasts with an enthusiasm the subjects rarely afforded.

* * *

Bhavana: Yes, that's something. She's not on the General Tilney or Sir Walter Elliot scale of awfulness. As for the painting, bear in mind that it's of Lady Anne _and Lady Catherine_. Given Darcy's ginormous quarrel with her, Lord Ancaster thought he might be very offended and assume some other meaning than what was intended. However, it's still the only (known) painting left of Lady Anne, and Georgiana can hardly remember her, so for her sake, Lord Ancaster went through with it. Thank you! 


End file.
